The Realization
by EKWTSM9
Summary: "The language of friendship is not words but meanings." Henry David Thoreau
1. Chapter 1

**The Realization**

San Francisco Homicide Inspector Steven Keller stepped out of the small tent, closed his eyes against the bright morning sun and inhaled a lungful of freshwater-laced air. After only a day and a half, he was finally starting to lose the tightness in his back and shoulder muscles that had plagued him for the past few weeks, the nagging stiffness a physical manifestation of the turmoil in his mind.

It has been a little under six months since he had been promoted to assistant inspector, transferred to Homicide and partnered up with the much revered, respected and damn near legendary Lieutenant Mike Stone. The working alliance had begun very well with a healthy respect for each other's backgrounds, methods and innate aptitudes, but lately the young inspector had begun to chaff under what he was beginning to think was a subtle yet viable condescension from the older man.

And though he couldn't put his finger on what exactly it was that was beginning to annoy him so much, he knew that he had to put some space between himself and the lieutenant and sort some things out. So he had put in for a week's vacation, called up some old college friends and now they were camping under the stars at Crystal Bay on the north shore of Lake Tahoe, far away from cars, offices, telephones and routine of any kind.

Down near the water, Paul Davison was tending to a beaten-up metal coffeepot sitting on a rusty grill over a campfire. With an old oven mitt pock-marked with burn holes, he was trying to get the pot settled above the meager flame. Finally successful, he glanced over his shoulder. "I was wondering when you were gonna get up." He nodded down the beach. "Brian and Scott are trying to catch us some fish for breakfast," he chuckled. "Good thing we brought some eggs and bread."

Chuckling, Steve nodded. "I guess I should make myself useful and get down there and help them, hunh?" He tilted his head quickly from side to side, getting the kinks out of his neck, then started off down the beach.

"Don't be too long, the coffee's almost ready," Paul's voice followed him as he disappeared over a dune.

He spotted his friends a little further down the beach, fishing poles in hand, lines in the water over a deep pool below a wall of black rock forming a small inlet. As he made his way down the beach, he couldn't help but think about his partner; he knew Mike was off on his own vacation, joining three old colleagues, long since retired, on a marlin-fishing expedition to the Baja Peninsula. One of them, a retired captain, flew his own small plane and they had made this jaunt many times before.

# # # # #

A fish-less breakfast long behind them, Steve and friends headed out onto the lake in the two small canoes they had rented for the week. Their intention was to ply the waters along the shore, hopefully to meet up with other like-minded contemporaries, and maybe even someone with an outboard motorboat so they could do a little water-skiing.

It didn't take long. And way before any of them had anticipated, they stumbled upon another group of young people with not one but two motorboats, not to mention more female members of their group than male, which fit right in with what the San Francisco coterie was counting on.

A day on the water turned into a night on the beach, replete with bonfire and excessive drinking, and the police inspector was obligated to turn a blind eye, and a pinched nose, when it came to the tokes being enjoyed all around him. With a nod to his current profession, he declined to indulge himself; this realization brought a small smile to his lips. Before becoming an inspector, he never had a qualm about lighting up but now he was thinking twice. Maybe the 'good lieutenant' was having more of an influence on him than he realized.

Although, he thought back, he had seen Mike overlook a joint on more than one occasion; if truth be told, the older man was a mass of contradictions. He leaned back on the sand, burying his beer bottle slightly so it wouldn't fall over, and stared out at the still water, trying to shut out the revelry on the beach, using these few moments alone to maybe try to begin to figure out why he was there and what was really bothering him.

After several unproductive minutes, he heard the soft footfalls of someone approaching and Paul dropped down onto the sand beside him, two beer bottles n hand. He held one out. "I thought you could use a refill."

Steve looked over, a smile creasing his features. "Thanks, man." He took the bottle and they clinked bottlenecks. Both of them took long drafts, settling back in the sand.

Eventually, Paul cast his friend a sideways glance. "So, are you gonna tell me what burr is up your butt this week, or are you just gonna keep doing the brooding, silent James Dean thing?" he asked drolly.

Steve snorted, shaking his head. Paul had been one of his roommates at Berkeley; they had studied law together before Steve had drifted towards criminology. Davison had become a lawyer and was already a junior partner in a prestigious San Francisco law firm.

"I could never keep anything from you, could I?" the cop said with a resigned sigh.

"Ah, no," Paul said pointedly, "so spill it. There are a number of very pretty ladies back at that bonfire that I want to get to know a lot better tonight, but that's not gonna happen if they know you're down here being all, I don't know, dark and mysterious. So…spill it."

Steve had taken another mouthful of beer and he swallowed slowly, putting the bottle in the sand before settling back on his elbows and sighing loudly. "I'm beginning to have second thoughts about my move into homicide."

Paul, who had been looking at the water, turned sharply. "What? Why? I mean, you were all excited about it, what the hell happened?"

Steve bobbled his head slightly, inhaling loudly, and when he didn't say anything, Paul continued. "So, are you not getting along with your partner? You don't like the job? What?"

"No, no, I love the job, it's challenging and it's rewarding, really, it's everything I thought it would be. It's just…" His voice trailed off.

"Well, if it's not the job, then it's gotta be your partner…?" Paul ventured cautiously.

Steve inhaled loudly again. "Yeah."

"So, what's going on between you two? I mean, the last time I talked to you, you couldn't say enough good things about him. What changed?"

Again Steve took several seconds before he spoke. He stared at the water. "The more I think about it, the stupider it's beginning to sound but…"

Paul waited. "But…what…?" he asked eventually.

Steve snorted mirthlessly, knowing he was not going to be let off the hook anytime soon. The old friends knew each other too well. "It's gonna sound stupid and juvenile, but it's really getting to me…"

Another long silence. "You know, if you don't tell me, I can't help you," Paul said facetiously, knowing from long experience it sometimes took a while for his friend to open up.

Another snort, this one filled with amusement and irony. "Paul, don't get me wrong, I think the world of Mike Stone, I really do, and I know I am lucky to be his partner, but it just seems to me that lately….well, that lately he's begun to see me not as his partner anymore but as some young pup that he has to paper train."

Paul inclined his head, frowning. "What do you mean?"

Steve took another self-conscious sigh and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "This is gonna sound stupid…and maybe a little petty… but …" he stopped, dropped his eyes, regrouped and tried again, "well, lately he's started calling me 'Buddy Boy' and I think, well… I think that it's a bit demeaning and –"

"That's it?" Paul said straight-faced, interrupting him.

Steve closed his mouth and stared at his old friend, stung. "What do you mean, 'That's it?'" he shot back. "Do you have any idea, in an office of macho cops who've got way more years on the job than I have, hearing my boss and partner calling me 'Buddy Boy'? It's a little demeaning, don't you think?"

Paul stared at him, unblinking. "Are you an idiot?"

Ruffled, Steve glared back at him. "What -?"

Paul put a hand up and stopped the riposte in its infancy. "That wasn't a rhetorical question, by the way – I meant it. Are you an idiot? You're working with a man who, in your words I believe, is the embodiment of everything you believe a police officer should be and now, suddenly it seems, because he's calling you by a pet name, you think he doesn't see you as an equal anymore, that you're somehow now diminished in his eyes and he's, what, making fun of you?"

As Paul spoke, Steve's eyes had drifted down to the sand between his feet and he hung his head. "Okay, so it sounds stupid when you say it like that –"

"You think?!"

"- but it doesn't take away from the fact that I don't think he sees me in the same light anymore."

Paul inhaled deeply as he continued to stare at his college roomy. "Other than this little nickname, has he done anything else to make you think that?"

The cop thought about it for several seconds before answering. "Well, no, not really. We consult on everything, he always drags me along to meetings with the brass, unless he's specifically told not to… we talk about everything."

"You spend time together away from the office?"

"Yeah, a few times. We've been bowling once, and we went to a gym and sparred once. We eat together a lot. He's even dragged me to a Giants game and he knows I'm not a huge baseball fan."

"So what makes you think that his calling you 'Buddy Boy' diminishes you in his eyes, or anyone else's?" Paul let this sink in for a few long moments. "Steve, Mike's a product of the Depression and World War Two, right?" The young cop nodded. "I remember my Dad always called me 'Kiddo' – he still does. The last time he did it we were in the corridor outside of one of the courtrooms, in front of Judge Spencer and a senior partner in my firm. I could've gotten mad at him, but I saw a smile in my boss's eyes and I knew he was thinking of his own father."

Paul smiled softly. "Don't think of it as a putdown, Steve; think of it as what it is – a term of endearment. And you know, maybe it's his way of trying to tell you he loves you."

Steve eyes drifted from Paul back to the sand. He felt his friend's hand on his back and a couple of quick pats, then he heard Paul stand up.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I need another beer and I want to get back to those lovely ladies before they think we're a little light in our loafers, if you know what I mean," he said with a chuckle as he turned and started back up the beach towards the bonfire.

With a chuckle and a headshake, Steve looked back at the water. Paul had given him a lot to think about, and it was several long minutes before he stood, shook the sand from his pants and, two empty beer bottles in hand, joined the others near the fire.

# # # # #

Steve dropped the bag of marshmallows, package of bacon and pack of Marlboros on the counter. They were making their way back to the campsite after a night of revelry and had stopped in at the small general store at Carnelian Bay. All four were wearing their dark glasses inside the dimly lit shop; every bit helped in controlling the pounding heads and fuzzy eyesight from the previous night's debauchery.

As the elderly clerk totaled his order while placing the items in a white plastic bag, Scott came up from behind and dropped an armload of groceries on the counter with a shudder then standing stock still in an attempt to not upset his heaving stomach even more. "Where's your Pepto Bismol?" he asked the clerk quietly, trying not to move his head more than necessary.

"Steve?"

The young cop turned towards Brian, who was covering the distance between them with surprising alacrity, a newspaper in his hand. Beyond him, Steve could see Paul standing in front of the dairy fridge, frowning.

"Steve, did you say your partner and his friends were flying to Baja to go fishing?" Brian asked as he got to the counter, pushing some of Scott's items aside with an elbow as he dropped the open paper onto the counter.

"Yeah, why?"

Brian glanced at him, eyes wide, then pointed at the newspaper.

Steve looked down, recognizing the paper as the Las Vegas Review-Journal. Brian's finger was beside a small article at the bottom of the second page. "Small plane missing" the headline read. Steve's heart skipped a beat and he swallowed heavily.

"Four men from the San Francisco area are missing and presumed dead after a Cessna 172 crashed in the desert just north of San Diego. An unconfirmed source has disclosed that the four men were current and retired members of the San Francisco Police Department, on their way to the Baja Peninsula for a fishing expedition.

Rescue crews have been hampered by bad weather and the remote location of the crash site."


	2. Chapter 2

**Many thanks to those who are reading and those who took the time to review. But a warning to all:**

 **this is not going to be one of my novelas. This is a short one.**

Brian watched as Steve inhaled sharply, whatever colour left in his hungover face rapidly draining away. He turned slightly, softly calling, "Paul," over his shoulder.

Turning almost somnambulantly away from the dairy fridge, Paul Davison looked over. "What?" he asked, starting to cross to his friends at the counter.

Steve seemed to shake himself back to the present and quickly looked up at the elderly clerk. "Do you have a phone I can use?"

"'Fraid not, son. The payphone out front is busted and I don't need one in here. The nearest phone'd be in Kings Beach, I think."

Brian had pointed out the newspaper article to Paul as Steve listened to the old man. Paul's eyes widened as he read the short report and he glanced quickly from Brian to Steve, who turned to him urgently. "We have to get back to the campsite. I have to get out of here. I gotta get to San Diego."

Paul held up his hands. "Steve, wait for a second, let's think this through. I know you want to get there, but we have to keep our heads right now, okay?" He glanced down at the paper once more. "This paper is dated yesterday, so this must have happened when? Two days ago? Sunday?"

"Paul –"

"Now wait a minute," the lawyer said calmly, keeping a steadying hand on Steve's arm, "I'm sure the weather's cleared by now and they've made it to the cra-… to the site. And I'm sure the guys back in San Francisco know all about it by now. So what we have to do is get you to a phone so you can call them and find out exactly what's going on, alright?"

Breathing heavily, trying to slow his pounding heart, Steve was staring into his friend's eyes, as if pleading for reassurance. "You're right, you're right."

"Okay." Paul nodded at Scott and Brian and they turned away to finish their transactions with the clerk. He took a step closer to his distraught friend. "Look, Steve, you can't believe everything you read, right? Think about it, if they hadn't found the site yet, how can they say for sure that everyone on the plane is 'presumed dead'. Right?"

Eyes suddenly unfocusing, Steve nodded slightly, almost distractedly. Then his nod became more pronounced and he looked up, meeting Paul's eyes once more. "Yeah, yeah, you're right. Okay, ah, let's get out of here and get to a phone, okay?"

Smiling slightly, Paul squeezed his arm, thankful that Steve seemed to be thinking straight again. Exiting the small store with their supplies, they headed quickly to the canoes tied to the small dock. Paul got into the canoe behind Steve and they pushed away from the shore quickly, plunging their paddles deeply, almost furiously, into the water.

After a couple of minutes of frenzied paddling, and breathing heavily, Steve sat back and let the tip of his paddle skim the top of the water, allowing their momentum to carry them along. Paul, sitting in the stern, watched the back of his friend's head, keenly aware of the battle for emotional control that was raging within. And, despite the seriousness of the situation, a slightly ironic smile that he was glad Steve couldn't see briefly curled his lips. 'Yeah, right, he doesn't care,' Paul thought to himself.

# # # # #

A little over two hours later the canoes were run ashore on the sand at Kings Beach. Steve jumped from the bow and started to sprint up the dune. It was still a bit of a hike to get to the road, then they had to find a lift into the small town and, hopefully, a working telephone.

Scott, brought up to speed by Brian during the trip back, helped Paul drag his canoe further up the beach then reached in to retrieve the plastic bags of supplies. "He's really worried, isn't he?"

"Well, it is his partner," Paul said with a sad sigh.

"Yeah," Scott said equally quietly. "Well, let's just hope it's good news."

The three friends jogged through the sand to catch up with the young cop, who was getting close to the road, his eyes scanning back and forth in search of an approaching vehicle, with no success. As the other three reached him, Steve turned in the direction of the town. "Let's start walking," he said, the driving intensity back in his voice.

With a quick affirming nod to each other, they fell into step behind him. Scott jogged a couple of steps to catch up to Steve. "Hey," he began tentatively, "I'm sorry, man, I hope he, ah, your partner, I hope he's okay."

Staring straight ahead, Steve nodded curtly. "Yeah, thanks. I hope so too."

Knowing he wasn't going to get anything more from Steve, whose thoughts were obviously far away, Scott dropped back. He glanced at the other two, all three sharing concerned looks.

The sound of an engine could be heard behind them, and they all turned to see a beat-up old pickup truck approaching. Brian and Scott stuck their thumbs out but Steve stepped into the middle of the road and began waving his arms.

"Steve…" Paul said warningly, "careful."

Luckily the truck came to a stop and Steve approached the window. "Hi," he said with a friendly smile, "thanks for stopping. Look, ah, we need to get into Kings Beach to a phone – I have a family emergency."

The grizzled old man in the battered straw hat behind the wheel glanced from Steve to the others. He didn't move for several seconds as Steve continued to stare at him, then he nodded and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Get in the back," he said gruffly.

His grateful grin not reaching his troubled eyes, Steve nodded. "Thank you." He and the others vaulted into the bed and Paul pounded the side panel to let the driver know they were ready. As the truck pulled off and headed down the road, Steve looked at Paul, who nodded encouragingly and patted his forearm.

With another quick smile and a shake of his head, Steve looked down. That was something else about Mike that he was finding hard to get used to – the older man's almost obsessive need, it seemed, to touch. Whereas he came from a family that, though close, was not demonstrative and at times avoided any unnecessary touching, his partner showed no hesitancy whatsoever in using physical contact to express how he felt or to emphasize a point. It took some getting used to and Steve felt he wasn't really there yet.

Paul studied his worried friend. He was well aware of Steve's strong streak of loyalty and his unparalleled sense of ethics and decency, and he knew the cop was now wrestling with conflicting emotions. How ironic would it be if now, suddenly, the entire question of his staying in homicide or requesting a transfer would be taken from his hands, rendered moot by a tragic act of fate that no-one could have foreseen.

Paul had never met Mike Stone but somehow he knew, from what Steve had told him in the past six months, that the senior detective was not only a more than worthy partner for his talented and compassionate young friend, but that he could turn out to be the mentor and guiding force that Steve Keller needed in his life. Which was why he was surprised when Steve had told him, last night on the beach, of his doubts and insecurities.

But then again, Steve had always pulled away from the people who could help him the most, preferring to 'go it alone' than to be indebted to anyone. Paul had seriously thought, and hoped, that this time would be different.

The pick-up truck turned into the pot-holed dirt parking lot and stopped in front of the green and yellow painted general store. The phone booth was near the road and Steve called out his thanks to the driver as he leapt over the side of the truck and sprinted towards the booth.

The other three got out of the truck more sedately, Paul thanking the driver profusely while Brian and Scott retrieved their grocery bags. They had just started towards the phone booth when Steve, receiver in hand, leaned out of the booth and yelled, "Change! I'm gonna need change!"

"I got it," Paul said, reaching into his pants pocket for some bills as he turned and headed back towards the store. Brian and Scott continued to the booth, both rooting in their pockets for coins.

"How much does it take?"

"I need another fifty cents," Steve said, hand out, "but that'll only get me a couple of minutes." He took two quarters from Brian's palm and stuck them in the coin slot, waited for the connection to complete then began to dial the ten-digit number.

They watched his face as he waited; it was obvious that all he was hearing was a ringing phone. Frustrated, he slammed the receiver down, then waited impatiently for the coins to discharge before retrieving them and feeding them into the slot once more. "There's no answer at his house. I'm trying the office. Someone has to be there," he explained, more to himself, they thought, trying to disguise his trembling hands as he thumbed the coins into the narrow slot.

Once more he punched in a ten-digit number, and once more he waited. He glanced at his watch. "There's gotta be someone there," he growled, shifting his weight, glancing up as Paul joined them, holding out a fistful of coins. "Come on, come on," Steve muttered under his breath. He slammed the handset onto the cradle, then laid his forehead against the back of his hand. "No one's answering, I don't understand."

They heard the coins discharging once again and he slid them from the holder. "There's one more number I can try," he said softly, beginning to slide the coins into the slot once again.

They watched as he dialed and waited, his head coming up quickly and his eyes snapping wide open. "Yes, this is Inspector Keller. Could you connect me with Homicide please, Sergeant Haseejian?" He paused. "Thank you." He looked at the others, a small smile finally playing across his lips.

Suddenly he froze. "Hello?! Hello?!" he shouted into the handset, took it away from his ear momentarily to look at it, then barked into it once more. "Hello?! What the hell?!"

Paul glanced at the other two. "What happened -?"

"Sorry about that, fellas!" yelled a gravelly voice from behind them and they turned to see the store owner standing at the open front door. "The power just went out. Happens sometimes. It shouldn't be too long."

"Damn it!" Steve screamed into the phone in futility, then slammed the handset back down on the cradle.

"Don't break it, Steve," Scott cautioned carefully and Paul shot him a warning look.

Paul turned to Steve. "Look, ah, while we're waiting for the power to come back on, why don't we have something to eat. I don't know about you guys, but I need something in my belly."

The others nodded, Steve reluctantly, and they headed slowly towards the store. Paul fell into step beside the young cop who, until now, hadn't noticed the newspaper in his friend's hand.

"I want to show you something," Paul said quietly, opening the paper to the second page and folding it back. He pointed to an small article on the bottom half of the third page.

"Rescuers reach downed Cessna" it read. Steve stared at the headline, swallowing heavily, then reached out to take the paper from Paul's hand.

"Search and Rescue finally reached the downed Cessna 172 that crashed in the desert just north of San Diego on Sunday morning. The small aircraft, flying out of San Francisco and carrying four current and former SFPD officers, was reported missing shortly after 10 am.

Reports from the scene confirm that there was one fatality and that the other three occupants were found alive but critically injured. All three survivors were airlifted to hospitals in the San Diego area. Names of the victims are being withheld pending notification of next of kin."


	3. Chapter 3

The ringing started on the other end of the line. If it was at all possible, Steve gripped the handset even tighter. It had taken a little over an hour and a half for the power to come back on. They had been sitting in the shade under the awning at the front of the store, cold soft drink bottles in hand. When the outdoor ice freezer started to hum and the Three Dog Night hit "Mama Told Me (Not To Come)" could be heard from inside the store, Steve bolted to his feet and sprinted to the phone booth.

Ninety minutes had been way too long for his fertile mind not to explore all the possible scenarios. What if Mike was dead? Injured too badly to survive? What if he was paralyzed, or maimed? Bedridden for the rest of his life? Surely he would be too badly injured to be back to work anytime in the near future.

And did he, Steve, bring this on, with his doubts about their ability to work together? His first trainer out of the academy had been badly injured in a car accident and subsequently retired when they had been together less than five months. Had he become a Jonah?; would he become a pariah?

Steve carried no pictures of his partner with him, and now suddenly found he was having trouble remembering exactly what Mike looked like; all he seemed to recall was the sparkling blue eyes, the irresistible grin and infectious laugh. He even chuckled softly to himself – if that's the only things you remember about someone, it's not a bad legacy, he thought.

And now he leaned against the open accordion door of the dusty phone booth once again, with his three friends looking on, and prayed that someone would pick up the receiver on the other end. There was a loud click and the connection was made. At first all he could hear was a cacophony of voices and he could barely make out "Homicide, Haseejian!" being shouted into the din.

Steve glanced up at his friends before yelling "Norm, it's Steve!" into the handset.

"Steve?!" he heard Haseejian shout again, "Steve, is that you?!"

"Yeah!"

"Where the hell have you been?! We've been trying to get in touch with you?!" Even bellowing at the top of his lungs, Steve could barely hear his colleague over the background clamor. What the hell was happening in Homicide?

"Norm, what's going on with –!"

"Just a second, someone needs to talk to you!" Haseejian cut him off and Steve heard the din suddenly muffled, as though Haseejian put his hand over the mouthpiece. He heard a voice yell "Captain!" but he couldn't tell if it was Haseejian or not. Steve glanced up at Paul and his furrowed brow told the young lawyer that he was now even more worried.

Another connection was opened and the background racket got appreciably louder. He heard a voice say "Steve?" but he couldn't tell who it was. Devitt? Olsen? Mentally, he braced himself as he heard the click of the first phone being hung up and then the decibel level decrease even more as if a door was shut.

"Steve? Is that you?" came a voice that he recognized immediately; his eyes shot wide open and he seemed to stagger.

"Mike?" he gasped and his three friends flinched, Paul's hand shooting out to grab his arm and steady him.

"Yeah. Where the hell are you? I've been trying to reach you for days. You didn't leave me a number."

Steve's knees had given out slightly and he sagged against the door of the booth. His head swam and he gulped air as he started to laugh, suddenly overwhelmed with relief.

On the other end of the line, Mike paused, hearing his partner's laboured breathing, realizing that, until this second, Steve may have thought he was dead. He gave the younger man a few seconds to pull himself together.

"You, ah, you weren't on that plane?" Steve finally got out, and Mike closed his eyes, moved by the naked emotion he could hear in the familiar voice.

Mike took a deep breath before answering slowly. "No, uh, something came up and I couldn't go. When I heard about the crash, I tried to get in touch with you. I didn't want you to worry. But I couldn't –"

"Please deposit another fifty cents to continue your call," a mechanical voice interrupted him.

"Where are you?" Mike asked quickly. "Tahoe?"

"Yeah."

"Look, call me at home tonight, collect, and I'll tell you all about it. I should be home by eight. Go…have some fun, alright?... Steve?"

"Yeah, yeah, I will, I'll call –" The line went dead. Steve stood transfixed, the receiver still to his ear, trying to process everything he had just heard. Slowly he looked up, finding Paul's eyes, and for the first time all day, he really smiled.

# # # # #

In the waning sunlight, Mike turned the Galaxy onto the steep street, his eyes trying to locate an open space amongst the parked cars on his left. He chuckled to himself when he spied a slot almost directly opposite his house. "My luck continues…" he said softly as he swung the large sedan into the space.

He turned the car off and sat there for a couple of seconds, running his hands over his tired face and trying not to yawn. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 8:41. "Oh jeez," he growled, taking the key from the ignition and opening the door. "Steve." Slamming the car door, he sprinted across the street then almost slid to a stop on the sidewalk, catching his breath in surprise.

Sitting on the bottom flight of stairs, a smiling Steve Keller got to his feet. "I thought you said you were gonna be home by eight," he said with a small laugh.

Grinning, a little nonplussed but obviously pleased, Mike shot back. "And I thought you were gonna call? What did you do, hang up the phone and get right into your car?"

"It's only a four hour drive and besides, I have a Porsche, remember?" Steve teased.

"Yeah, I remember." Mike pretended to glance up and down the street. "I didn't see it."

"Oh, ah, I parked one street over. There was only one space available when I got here and I didn't want you to have to park that … monstrosity too far away."

With a sardonic smile, Mike moved closer. "So, ah, now that you're here, you, ah, you want to come up and have a drink?" he asked facetiously.

"I'd love to," Steve said with a chuckle, taking a step back and gesturing towards the stairs. Mike stepped in front of him and started up. "Have you had dinner?"

"Not really," Mike said over his shoulder, "I had a sandwich around two. I could eat. You?"

"Same here. I'll order a pizza, okay?"

"Sounds perfect."

# # # # #

"The pizza's on its way. Well, once they bake it, of course," Steve announced with chuckle as Mike came down the stairs from his bedroom, now dressed in khakis and a blue work shirt. He pointed to the coffee table. "I opened you a beer."

"Oh, thanks," Mike said, trying to stifle a yawn as he picked up the can and dropped heavily into the recliner.

Sitting on the couch, his own beer cradled in both hands between his thighs, Steve studied the top of the can. "So, ah, so what happened? Why didn't you go?" he asked quietly.

Mike swallowed the mouthful of beer he was drinking and leaned forward deliberately to put the can back on the coffee table. He sat back and sighed, his gaze drifting to a point somewhere in the middle of the carpet. "I was supposed to fly out with them on Sunday morning, you knew that, and then about 3 a.m., I get this phone call. It was the Chief." He shook his head and chuckled. "Woke me up pretty fast, I'll tell ya. Anyway, it seemed that a Chinese diplomat had just been found in a bordello in Chinatown with a dead hooker in his bed. The Chief knows I've worked a couple of other cases involving the Chinese consulate over the years and he asked me to take this one on." He shrugged with a wry smile. "What could I do?"

"But there were four guys on the plane."

"Yeah, I know. I knew Bob'd be up with the sun, hell, _before_ the sun, getting everything ready, so I called him at 5 and told him I couldn't come. I guess he found someone to take my place."

"When did you find out it had gone down?" Steve asked quietly.

"The department was notified Sunday night, but we were just told the plane was missing. They didn't get to it till Monday morning. It's really a miracle anyone survived."

Steve looked down. "Who, ah, who was it that died?"

Mike took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush. He cocked his head slightly, looking inward. "It was the guy that replaced me," he said simply, trying to keep the dismay out of his voice.

Steve closed his eyes and took his own deep breath. "How bad are the others, do you know?" he asked eventually.

Mike shook his head. "It's pretty bad, I know that." He looked at Steve and smiled sightly, ironically. "There but for the grace…right?" He inhaled deeply. "Anyway, ah, I was hoping that you wouldn't hear a news report or see something in a paper." He looked at Steve sharply. "Is that what happened?"

With a slight smile of his own, Steve nodded. "A Vegas paper. One of my friends saw it."

"Damn it," Mike said softly. "I'm sorry, buddy boy, I really didn't want to worry you but there was no way I could get in touch with you. I didn't have a phone number or even knew where you were exactly." He saw the younger man wince slightly at the sobriquet and silently kicked himself for using it once again. Over the past couple of weeks, he had become aware that the younger man was growing increasingly uncomfortable whenever he used the epithet, and he had made a conscious effort to curb its use. But occasionally he'd forget and it would slide effortlessly from his lips.

A somewhat uncomfortably silence lengthened between them, then Steve asked, "So, did you solve the hooker murder? Is that what all that noise in the office was today?"

"Oh," Mike nodded, chuckling, "yeah, turns out the diplomat did do it. I think the consulate was hoping it was a set-up of some kind, but nope. Our 'unwitting victim' was actually the perp. We had just released that little bit of information to the public and the entire place went crazy. Seems a couple of higher ups at the consulate had spent the last few days denigrating the reputation of The City and its police department, and the public was venting their anger and frustration with the way they believe diplomats are treated differently than locals. All those overflow phone calls made it up to us eventually and all hell broke loose." He chuckled again. "You almost couldn't hear yourself think in there for awhile."

He glanced at Steve. "You need another beer. I'll get it," he said as he got up and picked up the two empty cans. "Hey, why don't you see if you can find the Giants game on the radio. I think they're playing the Pirates tonight – should be a good game," he instructed as he disappeared into the kitchen.

Shaking his head, Steve chuckled to himself as he got up and crossed to the radio on the end table. As he turned it on and tried to find the station, he thought back over the past few hours, of the elation that followed the phone call and the hasty decision to cut short his vacation and head back to The City. He listened to Mike in the kitchen, opening their beers and putting what sounded like potato chips into a bowl, and he smiled.

Mike walked back into the living room with two cans in one hand and an aluminum bowl of chips in the other. He handed one can to Steve before setting the bowl on the coffee table. "Sorry, I don't seem to have any dip. My fridge never seems to be well-stocked whenever Jeannie's not home," he apologized with a chuckle.

"No problem," Steve smiled back as he turned up the volume on the radio then took his seat on the couch. "I hope the pizza gets here soon. I'm starved."

Laughing, Mike dropped back onto the armchair. "Me, too. Oh, just so you know, I'm gonna take the next couple of days off and head down to San Diego…you know, see how everyone's doing…" Steve nodded. "You still have a few days left, why don't you go back to Tahoe? After all, you said it yourself, you do have a Porsche," he said with a chuckle.

"I might," Steve said, leaning back on the couch. He closed his eyes, suddenly aware of a feeling of contentment washing over him; the unease and confusion that had dominated his thoughts so recently had disappeared. He opened his eyes and looked over at his partner, whose own head was back against the armchair and eyes closed. Mike looked tired and worried, and Steve's heart went out to him. It must have been an hellacious week for the older man… for his partner.

# # # # #

"I should get out of here," Steve said as he got to his feet, picking up the two plates from the coffee table and crossing into the kitchen. "You've gotta get some sleep."

Rubbing a hand across his tired eyes, Mike nodded, getting up as well. "Yeah, it's gonna be a long drive." He turned off the radio then picked up the empty beer cans and carried them into the kitchen.

Standing at the counter, Steve turned to face his partner. "Listen, ah, how about I come by tomorrow morning and pick you up… we can go to San Diego together."

Mike froze slightly as he put the cans on the counter. "Don't you want to go back to Tahoe?"

"I can go there anytime. Right now, I think I'd like to go with you to San Diego, if you don't mind?"

"No, no, not at all," Mike said quickly, trying not to grin. "I'd love the company, really." He stared at the younger man, not sure what to say next.

Steve smiled warmly, not meeting Mike's stare as he closed the lid of the pizza box and put it in the fridge. He started towards the front door, Mike in his wake.

"Listen, ah," Mike began again as Steve opened the door, "you really don't have to come, bud- … Steve."

"I know," Steve said, nodding, "but I really want to. So, I'll pick you up at - what? Seven?"

Starting to get his equilibrium back, Mike snorted. "Seven? Are you nuts? We wouldn't get into San Diego until dinnertime. Five."

"Five?" Steve shot back, amusement in his tone. "Mike, not even the birds are up at five o'clock!"

"The birds don't have to drive through rush-hour traffic. Five."

"Five-thirty?" Steve turned puppy-dog eyes on his partner. "Don't forget, we'll be in the Porsche. I can make good time in the Porsche."

"Yeah, I know you can, that's what I'm worried about," Mike said lightly, enjoying the repartee that had been missing from their relationship lately. He was about to protest once more when suddenly he laughed and sighed. "Alright, you win. Five-thirty, but you better be here on the dot or there'll be hell to pay, young fella," he threatened with a chuckle as Steve stepped onto the porch.

Their eyes met and they both froze, their smiles briefly disappearing. Then Steve grinned and reached out to affectionately slap the older man on the arm before he turned away. He stopped and looked back. "I don't mind it, you know," he said softly.

Mike's head went back slightly and his brow furrowed. "Don't mind what?"

"Buddy boy. I don't mind it."

Mike froze and his throat tightened. He blinked quickly a couple of times and it took a couple of seconds before he could find his voice. He nodded slowly, a smile building. "I'll keep that in mind," he said quietly.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning," Steve said with a grin as he turned and started down the steps.

"Yeah, tomorrow," Mike repeated as he watched him go, smiling.


End file.
